Imperfection
by Pixisticks
Summary: This is a short story (or one-shot, I guess it's called) about a girl who's outlook on life is bleak, but how love helped change her point of view. Please R&R!


Imperfection  
  
I never thought of myself as perfect, though I loved to pretend I was one of the immortals. You know, elves and such. I knew it was impossible, but I have a vivid imagination. Even if I were to be in a world of differentiating intelligent species, I still would be human. Immortals are tall, slender, fair, and graceful. I am somewhat of a lesser image. My hair, usually tangled, is a shade of brown, and though my mother says it is the color of sweet honey, I could not help but think 'No, brown is the color of dirt, where the lowliest servants lie to sleep. Brown is the color of dirty water, dumped out in the dirt, or dust that is swept under a rug and forgotten.' My eyes are large-too large, in my opinion-and an odd shade of blue. My friends say, 'Your eyes are beautiful, they are the shade of the ocean at its best. On rare occasions, they are as clear as a dancing stream, a playing fountain. They are your best feature.' I thanked them for their kindness, but secretly I whispered, 'No, they are the color of a torn blue dress. They are that of a playful and reckless deer's, the animal which eventually ends up on the kitchen table for dinner.'  
My skin is washed out, and I trip over everything, even my words. I am the clumsiest person I know-were I to be a lowly servant, I would certainly be dismissed(If I were hired at all, of course). You see now why I wished to be an immortal? They are wise, I am foolish. They are-aptly named-immortal, and I am not. The only bad thing about being an immortal is. they, well, don't exist in our world. This is part of what changed my mind about wanting to be one of them, I would really rather prefer to be real than perfect.  
The other reason is him. He is just a friend, but I love him more than life itself. I cannot tell you his name, for I do not rightly know it- the world has come to these times now where no one really knows all about another. He calls me Elendia, which is so close to my real name I sometimes wonder what he knows. I, in turn, call him Tuatha. Though I love him so much, I could never tell him how I feel, because he is so deeply smitten with my sister. I cannot blame him-Laurana is almost an immortal herself. She is tall and graceful, slender and beautiful. Her eyes are so dark, they look a liquid black. Her hair spills down her back to her waist, white- blonde poured from a golden pitcher of the sun. Her skin is a fair pale, that glows, unlike mine. My only regret about having such a wonderful, beautiful sister is that the one I love most wishes he could have her. But alas, my life is a confusing mess of ardor, for she is betrothed to a man who is as wicked as she is beautiful. Laurana, of course, does not love him, but his late brother. Brokenhearted, she agreed to his proposal, and from that moment my father swore she'd been bought(This may have had something to do with the fact that the heinous villain offered two thousand pounds for her, but that's beside the point).  
I had mixed emotions about the arrangement. Of course I did not want my sister to marry someone as evil as that man, but if it meant a chance that Tuatha might love me. I knew it was wrong to think such thoughts, but I could not stop them. However, that is getting off the subject. Tuatha changed my vision of wanting so desperately to be an immortal simply by letting me fall in love with him. Naturally he didn't 'let' me, I did so on my own, but if he'd stayed away when he and his father left for London, I would have met-hopefully-someone else. It turned out, though, to be a good thing he returned, for he would help me see that wanting to be something you are not is pointless.  
You see, when you love someone as much as I do him, it can sometimes confuse your heart and sometimes enlighten it. In this case, I was enlightened. When I was in a sorrowful state of decadence, Tuatha came to me and inquired about what was the matter. Since I loved him even then, I gave in to the urge to tell him everything-that is, everything except how I feel for him. He helped me see, though I don't really think he knew it, that pity for others is unnecessary, and pity for yourself is bound to cause trouble. I realized that if you love someone, you have to put aside your feelings and want what is best for them-even if it means removing yourself from the picture. I did that for him, and when I did so I could not help but wonder if I really needed to be an immortal after all. After I told my sister how much he loved her, and watched her confront him, I saw how happy they would be together and pondered whether an immortal would be as wise as that. I contemplated my family and friends' words, and wondered if I was only ugly in my eyes because of the bitterness in my heart. That simple act of kindness towards one I loved helped me to realize that I am only unwise because I am young and still trying to find myself, unsightly because of the uncertainty and anger in my spirit. Jealousy, anger, being envious results in wanting but never receiving. Imperfection results in wanting, but being satisfied with what you can get. I have all that I can get, but someday, perhaps, I will not be burdened by my imperfection. 


End file.
